


Resurrection and Redemption

by Wonderdyke



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Full of Feels, Light BDSM, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Top!Mycroft, sub!Lestrade, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderdyke/pseuds/Wonderdyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach John spirals into a depression which leads him to the edge of suicide but the timely intervention from a not-quite-dead Sherlock and the revelation of mutual affection stays his hand.  But, all is not well and danger still prevents Sherlock from returning from the dead in truth.  With the help of Mycroft and Greg Lestrade, John helps Sherlock take apart the last of Moriarty's organization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And now I live, and now my life is done.

**Author's Note:**

> In which sarcastic toasts are drunk, a man is taken to the edge and saved, a person is not arrested for breaking and entering, and lips -long awaited- are finally kissed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sarcastic toasts are drunk, a man is taken to the edge and saved, a person is not arrested for breaking and entering, and lips -long awaited- are finally kissed.

"John, wake up!" Sherlock shouted from the base of the stairs.

The man in question cracked open an eye, saw the glaring red digits of the bedside clock, then groaned and shut his eyes firmly. There was no way, no way Sherlock was going to drag him out of bed after two hours of sleep.

"John!"

The insufferable man was pounding on his door, now. "Go away!" he moaned, not bothering to move the warm dampness of the pillow from his face.

Sherlock burst into the room, slamming the door against the wall and denting the plaster further. "What in the hell, Sherlock!" he raged, jumping from beneath the duvet in only his shorts until he was still up, panting at the sudden dump of adrenaline in his system.

"There's a case, John!" Sherlock beamed, gripping his flatmate firmly by the shoulders.

"But we only just got back," he whined.

He waved a pale hand impatiently, indicating his severe lack of interest in sleep. "Don't be dense, John. The criminal element never sleeps." He spun around, rummaging through John's drawers.

Climbing back under the sheets, he speared Sherlock's back with a hateful glare before sinking back into a light doze, not really caring that Sherlock was dragging apart his dresser. "Go without me."

Sherlock spun around, leaning over until his face was mere inches from his friend. "John," he spoke at his normal level making the dozing man jerk in surprise, "that is completely unacceptable." Sherlock's head was canted to the side which gave the impression of a rather oddly shaped bird.

John sighed, pushing himself upright. Sherlock stood up again to give him room, contented by the fact that John was more awake looking than before. "Why is going alone… 'completely unacceptable'?" John asked, sighing impaitiently. Sherlock could irritate a Buddist Monk, in fact he had, forcing the poor man to break his vow of silence.

Sherlock snorted at John's feeble imitation of his voice. "You are John," he stated, as if that were explanation enough.

John levelled his most eviscerating glare at Sherlock, who seemed completely clueless. "Explain."

Sherlock gave the incredulous look he usually reserved for Anderson. "You are John, I need you for my deductions."

"You mean you need me to applaud at your brilliance. Even Batman managed to save Gotham without Robin."

"Bat-what?" Sherlock's eyebrows drew together in a rather comical expression of utter confusion.

"A show on the telly."

They spoke together, "Irrelevant information."

John couldn't help but grin, Sherlock smiled back, shaking his head in a playful annoyance. A moment later those clarion blue eyes unfocused, turning hazy and muddled like the eyes of the dead. His stomach clenched in a horrifying feeling of déjà vu. "Sherlock?" John panicked, grabbing his friend by the shoulders.

"I'm a fake." Sherlock's voice was emotionless, cold and distorted, as if being heard through the crackling end of a mobile. Blood trickled down Sherlock's forehead, marring that pale skin.

"Stop it Sherlock!" John cried, desperate to hold onto his friend as they fell backwards, plummeting off the roof of St. Bartholomew's.

He startled out of his nightmare, his body drenched in sweat, every muscle screaming at him that he was back in Afghanistan. He gasped for breath, sucking it in in great heaving gulps. Forcibly, he pushed down the wail of anguish building in his throat. He clenched, his whole body spasming with the tension he held in. John wondered with a blessedly detached curiosity whether he could split the skin of his knuckles by digging his fingers in too far. He felt the sharp sting of his fingernails breaking through the layers of scabs on his marred palms and sighed. It didn't matter that it was just a moment, didn't matter that soon the violent sickness that accompanied his thoughts of Sherlock would come crashing over him like the waves at Dover, for one moment he thought of nothing at all. He clung to that calm but the harder he fought toward it, the more it fell apart. He trembled for a moment on the bed before deciding, firmly, to get pissed instead.

The sanguine digits of the clock grinned at him. 20:09. Fuck, he'd been sleeping for a mere hour.

Watson fled from his sister Harry's guest room, he hadn't been able to go back to 221B since… he pushed it away along with the accompanying clenching of his bowels.

Everything had come full circle, hadn't it? How long had he been saving Harry? He'd saved her from the bottom of a bottle, dragged her to those meetings. Now here he was, killing himself just the same. Pathetic. Six months! Six months – 'five months, twenty eight days' Sherlock's insufferable voice corrected in his head – and he still woke up sweating and sick. Six months – he forced down that other voice – and no job, no hope. All that time and the only thing he'd accomplished was to finally, finally convince himself that Sherlock was well and truly dead.

It didn't matter that he knew Sherlock was never coming back. He still couldn't return, couldn't let those memories surround him. He knew it would be his undoing. Eventually Mrs. Hudson delivered a few things, saying he could come by for the rest when he was ready.

He didn't know if he'd ever be.

He trudged through the London fog and the evening rush hour down to the pub on the corner, not a bad one; he may have even enjoyed it before… everything. Now he barely spared a glance for the barkeep before dropping a twenty pound note on the bar, then another and another after that revelling in the vindictive pleasure of wasting Mycroft's money. He left his finger paused on the third one. "That's for you," he indicated the third note pressed under his finger, "and so is anything else I don't pour down my throat so long as the glass stays full and anyone looking to chat me up finds something or someone else."

"Ta, mate." He scooped up the notes and nodded to the shelf of liquor. "Drink?"

A man of few words, John liked that. "Whatever's strong."

The pub smelled vaguely of vomit, stale beer, and pine scented cleaning products. It was smoky inside though John didn't see anyone with a cigarette. The wood of the bar was clean, well-polished and well worn. A triple shot of something brown slid into his hands, drawing him from his examination of the wood grain. Then a lager joined it.

"To Mycroft Holmes," John toasted to no one in particular, "may I piss away all his fucking blood money."

A few people raised their glasses in an apathetic salute. There was football playing and a few other sports. John couldn't bother himself to care, without Sherlock predicting - however infuriatingly accurately - the outcome, it seemed hollow. He looked up occasionally only to mark the passage of time. John noticed without any emotion that his hand had stopped shaking. Time to go, then. He gestured to the man behind the bar and turned to leave.

As he turned a flash of pale skin and dark curling hair had him pushing his way out through the evening crowd, earning cries of protest. He made it to the street: lorries splashing through the gutters, musicians, businessmen… so many damn people but not the one he needed. John scanned the crowds desperately, all the while berating himself for being a hopeless fool. No one. There was no one there.

John stood there, taxis splattering water at his feet, letting the bar crowd jostle him about for what seemed like an eternity before fleeing into the nearby alley. He trembled, his body shuddering great, long convulsions before releasing him into a wave of vomiting. John wondered if there would ever be a moment when he wouldn't look for Sherlock anymore. He was standing over his body all over again, St. Bart's looming as hands pulled him away and all the while John was shouting, "I'm a doctor, he's my friend."

The tears came then, and he let them. He cried in the alley, knowing how pathetic he must look, sobbing like a child, the smell of vomit cloying his nostrils. For a moment he considered going back to that club, finding that boy whose eyes looked like Sherlock's. John couldn't control the shudder of revulsion that tore through him. Not tonight, tonight it would be too real.

He yanked his mobile from his pocket and pounded out a short sentence. Each letter felt like defeat but he couldn't stop himself from pressing SEND.

Let's have dinner. - JW

A moment later his screen lit up, there was an address. He sighed not surprised at his lack of relief, or any emotion. Somewhere his brain was providing a diagnosises. He ignored it pointedly, knowing he was suffering from PTSD, depression, and a myriad of other problems from too many fights and too many drinks didn't fix it, it didn't bring Sherlock back. He stepped onto the curb, flagging down a passing cab. A short ride later and he was on what he could only presume was her doorstep.

A woman answered the door, small and red headed, and welcomed him into the flat. First she led him to a small bathroom to clean up, even providing him with a toothbrush. He was grateful. He smiled like a bar and vomit. When he was done she took him to a dining room.

Clearly, Irene had taken him seriously. The serving woman excused herself as John paced the room. He had thrown up most of what alcohol he had managed to consume and without the haze of drunkeness, coming to see Adler seemed... ill-advised. A moment passed, then another, heralded by the ticking of a large grandfather clock. The clock chimed ten. Had it only been two hours since he had fought his way out of bed? Just as John began to feel the lingering dregs of beer roiling in his stomach, a hidden door opened and she stepped out, thankfully dressed. Dressed rather modestly, for her, in a cream coloured frock that seemed to be transported out of the 1960's. In a fit of nostalgia he was reminded of his mother.

"John," she approached him, wrapping him in what seemed a genuine embrace despite the fog of liquor and vomit congealing around him.

She gestured for him to sit and for a while they simply ate. Mostly, John just pushed the food around his plate. They talked of little things or nothing at all.

Finally, when the tea had been served in the library and the serving woman had disappeared, Miss Adler leaned back next to John on the divan and levelled those dark, calculating eyes at him. His gaze wandered over the ancient books, the large desk, the mouldering furniture. Somehow this was so at odds with what he knew of her personality that he could only believe she was staying here as a guest. She leaned forward, gently brushing his knuckles where they gripped his tea cup, drawing his attention back in. John pulled away, as if scalded.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"How did you know?" she asked, leaning away again.

"That you were alive?" Irene nodded. John shrugged. "I saw you at his funeral. Didn't expect you'd still be in London but then you've always had balls of pure brass."

She smiled a little at that and sipped her tea. "You must have learned something from him to have noticed me there."

"Oh, your disguise was very good. It was the phone, the one you dropped into his grave just as I was leaving…"

"Ah," she quirked her sanguine lips in a wry smile, "Sentiment has had me out, once again."

"I didn't tell Mycroft." He didn't know why he needed to reassure her, or why he was suddenly so interested in the lint on his trousers.

"Of course you didn't." He heard her lean forward, the clink of the saucer touching the table making him jump. "And the phone number?"

"Your twitter. I figured you didn't change it. A woman like you has to keep her clients happy."

She nodded slightly, a curl of her lip intimating a certain pride. "Why did you come here, John?" she whispered. He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

"Because," he muttered, "you knew him, maybe even as much as I did. Because you loved him. You cried for him, I saw you." She smiled softly, letting him continue. "And because," he sighed, laying his head back against the cool leather behind him, "all these thoughts, all these feelings - I need it to stop. I hoped you could... help. I thought we could... talk." He hadn't even planned on saying that.

"You're losing control?" The question was politely phrased but hinted with concern.

He nodded. "You're the only friend I have right now."

"I'm honoured." He couldn't see her, he was too busy staring at the wide expanse of the ceiling, but her voice was warm.

"Probably means you haven't got a soul." His head dropped forward, finding a sudden interest in the pattern of the china. Without looking up from the examination of his tea he added, "Sorry."

"Oh, don't be," he could feel the bald amusement in her voice, "I've always liked a man with a smart mouth." She paused, then added at a whisper, "John, look at me."

She was poised on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her. Once she had his attention she crawled forward a placed a delicate kiss on his cheek. Leaning back on her heels Irene let her gaze slide over him, calculating. A sharp-nailed hand made contact with his cheek before he could even flinch. The slap echoed around the room. His cheek burned from where her nails had scored down his skin. For a moment the weight on his shoulders since Sherlock had died lifted and he felt... free.

He gasped with the relief of it. Irene was watching him again as he drew a long shuddering breath.

Pushing him back against the couch, Irene straddled his hips. His body jerked as she pinioned his wrists to the fabric her hands and arms suprisingly strong. He gave a feeble attempt at bucking her off before settling.

Her body leapt into action then, twisting as she grabbed him by the back of the neck, propelling him into the room. He tripped, falling to his knees.

She circled him as he knelt, the light tap of her heels on the floor punctuated the silence. "Why did you come here?" She struck him in his thighs with a riding crop she had retrieved from a drawer, pain blooming sweetly across his flesh.

He licked his lips. "To forget," he breathed.

She flicked her hand downward, the crop slicing down across his thighs. Close. Too close to things he'd rather not be on the receiving end of that painful instrument. He was mad, or at least heading there to remain still while she attacked him. God, it felt so good though. He didn't have to pretend right now or fight the rising tide of desperate longing that grew every moment Sherlock was gone from his life.

"Don't lie to me, John." her voice was delightfully sweet and deadly serious.

"I'm not." Another blow, this one behind the thighs. Memories, emotions, a chaotic jumble of past-present-future flooded through his mind, dams of emotion crumbling now. Sherlock's face rose unbidden in his mind, beautiful, clever, a right bastard too. John wanted it back, he wanted it all back. He wanted the running pell-mell through London, the confusion of always being one step behind, the frustration of being the only one to do the washing or the shopping but most of all he'd give every remaining moment of his life to just touch him one more time. The memories were so real he almost felt like he was.

Her voice shattered through the illusion, "Why come to me, John? If you're seeking forgetfulness there are hundreds of doms - of both genders - that never had anything to do with him."

He smiled bitterly, a flash of memory crossing his face. "You're like him."

Another strike, behind the thighs again. She let the end of the crop slide over his skin through the fabric of his clothes. His muscles twitched, expecting the next hit. A sudden sense memory of Sherlock's scent forced his mind to harry off. He remembered the pool, the feeling of Sherlock's hands pushing at his clothes. It hadn't been erotic at the time but now his brain twisted it into something more than it was.

"Flatterer," she cooed before striking him again, this time on the small of his back. John released a pain filled hiss, the woman knew how to hit. The crop circled under his jaw, drawing sharply against his trachea. "You don't need the best, do you John? Look at yourself…" And he did, his mind flashing to what he must look like, kneeling and exposed, every muscle in his body tight with longing. "You're practically begging for it." She pulled away.

He grunted as blow after blow landed across his shoulders, his arms. With each another memory floated up, he tried to hold onto them. Even as his mind focused on an image or a sensation they disappeared like vapor. He imagined Sherlock would know why, but then again, Sherlock was dead.

"But, I don't want you to beg. I want you to confess." She was working in a pattern now, each time they crossed multiplied the pain. John threw his head back, letting the hot tears stream down his face. "Tell me," she commanded.

"Because, I deserve this. It had to be you." She didn't pause or lessen, working her way across his back for the second time. The words seemed to bypass the parts of his brain which examined things before he said them, causing him a distant sensation of surprise at his own thoughts.

"Why, John?" she hissed, the tension palpable in the room.

He gasped, sobbing, fighting against the words which struggled to press out. He didn't want to say that, couldn't say that. But, it was true? Wasn't it? He pushed back, fragmented parts of his mind fighting for dominance and all the while the successive blows of the whip. Fiery, lancing pain coursed through him, his body jerking forward to collapse on the floor, but she didn't stop.

"Tell me," she demanded.

The tears were flowing faster now, hotter. He didn't think he could cry this much, certainly there was a limitation on the ammount of saline the tear ducts could hold. His breathing shattered apart until he was hitching and gulping. He finally forced his mouth to move, his voice to form the words and they tore loose from his throat like a battle cry, "Because I killed Sherlock Holmes."

-0-

Sherlock prowled up and down the darkened street. John had disappeared into Adler's newest hide-away three hours before, three! The pacing man let the tension wash over his body, an unfamiliar sense of betrayal clawing in his stomach.

He distracted himself by deducing ways to enter that flat undetected and fantasized about the ways in which he would do her harm. Skip, left arm up and pull down the slightly distended fire escape, fire escape to slightly ajar fourth floor window.

A woman passed by the mouth of the alley, her perfume cloying. She looked different since the last time he'd seen her but the slight hesitation when transitioning to her left foot belied the new growth of bunions and the marked way her right hand fidgeted in her pocket - texting without looking at the screen - revealed her as the woman who just two days before had curled up in an alley pretending to be homeless. She had failed, of course, because of many reasons: her nails, her teeth but also her smell. It was difficult to truly smell homeless unless you actually were homeless. She was one of Adler's people, spies of her's monitoring the street, occasionally following him or John. It would have been easy to shake them, but, he didn't care. He'd hoped if Adler believed he was alive she would stay clear of his doctor. Alas, it seemed she had even less good sense than he remembered.

He did not follow the perfumed informant. No doubt his presence had already been relayed.

Sherlock hunched down against the wall of the alley and waited and thought about John. Beautiful, maddening, beloved John. When had that happened? After the Blind Banker. Sherlock snorted at John's shockingly imprecise title for that particular case. He took a moment to participate in his own self-inflicted domestic. He admonished himself once again for those ill-advised word's at Angelo's. The problem was, once they were out there didn't seem to be anyway to take them back.

Anyways, what he said hadn't exactly been untrue, had it? He didn't date, had never done so. Of course there had been some uncomfortable moments in sixth form. Heavy petting and the like and it had all been very awkward. How could anyone enjoy that? So he'd put it aside. Full stop. Except now he was divided, more divided than he had ever been. One part of him warring with the other. Part A, improvised title "Rational Sherlock", reasoned that there was nothing he could need from that kind of... contact. Body equals transport. Any behaviour with John of that nature would undoubtedly effect his deductions. Part B, improvised title "Little Wanker", firmly plugged his ears and 'La La'ed through the whole argument.

Resolutely, Sherlock decided simply to soldier on. Ignore his feelings, a plan of action he had desperately been clinging to. And it had worked, sort of. There had been the embarrassing late night showers and the far too frequent times he caught himself staring at John's lips, but on the whole it was working. Then Moriarty. Moriarty had put a bomb on John, he had touched John. Everything in him wanted to tear Moriarty apart. Still, something in him was intrigued. Some part of him liked Moriarty.

It had been nearly a year before that nasty little head popped back out of whatever hole he'd hidden in. Moriarty's mind had twisted clever machinations the whole time, no doubt. Had he just thought Moriarty clever...? Well, at least not as boring as most. Was John boring? Definitely not.

Sherlock shook himself, pulling his thoughts away from John and back to Moriarty. He mulled over the gun, the bullet. He could not imagine he would kill himself. What would have been the point? Why capitulate? Perhaps Moriarty was still alive, biding his time? But he had seen the body. He growled in frustration.

He wanted to stalk across that street, to pull John away from The Woman, coitus - most definitely - interruptus. He body jerked with longing at that thought. He hadn't considered this. Hadn't wanted to dwell. Well, he was dwelling now. He longed to look into John's eyes, to see the tableau of emotions there. He longed to hear him puttering, making tea. Damnit! He wanted John. If John didn't want him, at least like that, then he would be fine, just fine the way they were before. It would be enough, he told himself. Had to be enough.

"I'm not gay." John's voice mocked him, from his own head, no less. "Does anybody care that I'm not gay?!"

Sherlock pushed those thoughts firmly away and waited. Steeling himself to wait in cerebral silence.

John shuffled out onto the street just as the deep shadows between the buildings were beginning to lighten with the nascent dawn. His gait was ill-measured and disjointed. Sherlock paused, his eyes sliding over the retreating figure. Overt stillness in the shoulder muscles - indicates favouring of a recent injury - knowing Irene it would be a riding crop. He pushed away a wave of anger as he continued to observe. No hyper awareness typical of his PTSD but he was limping and despite the fact that his hands were buried deep in his trouser pockets, his left hand trembled.

Conclusions? More data required.

John turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Sherlock suppressed the urge to follow and instead slipped across the street, the collar of his parka lifted against the cold. It took a few moments at the kitchen door with his lock picks tapping at the tumblers before her house opened to him. The alarm cried out in an annoying fashion but he was already moving.

Scuff markings on the floor showing John's path of retreat. 'Walk of shame,' his ill-timed brain provided the colloquialism. Examining closer Sherlock noticed small tufts of cotton, no doubt dropped from a terrycloth bathrobe, which led him directly to Adler.

She was waiting in her bedroom; in contrast to her rather domestic appearance in a post-shower state the accoutrements of her profession seemed almost... ridiculous. Her finger pushed in the final button on the security panel, silencing the wailing. Two large men were suddenly behind him, pressing him, holding his arms. He must be more exhausted than he originally accounted for, to have not heard their heavy tread.

"It's alright," Irene soothed, "we're old friends."

With the blind acceptance of the mentally deficient, or possibly - but less likely - the extremely obedient they released him immediately and closed the door behind them when they left. She waved him into a chair and placed a cup of tea in his hand, clearly already expecting him.

"Tell him you're alive," she said, the moment their footsteps faded from the hall. He didn't miss the connection. Those were the words John had said to her in that warehouse.

Sherlock twitched his head in irritation. "He's in danger. Others are in danger."

She didn't ask what from, she already knew.

"I can't," he winced at the fragile note in his own voice, "lose him."

"You'll lose him if you don't." Glancing to the right, indication of embarrassment, sincerity.

"It doesn't -" He cleared his throat before the whine of pain could escape. "So long as he is happy."

"Obviously, my meaning is lost on you. John," she indicated the London street, "is in free fall, emotionally speaking. How long before he uses the gun in your flat to end it? A week? A month?"

A wave of pain shot up his arm. Glancing down he noticed, distantly that the cup had shattered beneath his grip. Blood was already pooling on the saucer, mixing with the creamy colour of the tea.

"So, the brilliant sociopath can feel."

"Don't mock me." he growled, all pretence of civility stripped from his voice. He waited to gain some control before gritting out the question that had been pounding in his head from the moment he had walked in, "Did you touch him?" He put the saucer on the table, not meeting her eyes. Reaching into his pocket he found a handkerchief and wrapped it around his right hand. His eyes locked with her, a cold hatred pooling in his abdomen as he thought about her touching what Sherlock could not touching, about her fucking...

She recoiled... shock... then fear, then the return of that delightful mask she pretended was her real face. She tried for nonchalance and failed. "He came to me, Sherlock. He asked me."

A roar ripped loose from his chest. He was suddenly over the low table between them, pinning her arms to the back of the sofa. When he spoke it was little more than a whisper, underscored with a shaking violence, "Did. You. Fuck. Him?"

She shook her head, her throat working soundlessly.

"Then why did he come?"

She yelped in pain as Sherlock's fingers dug deeper into her biceps. Blood was flowing slowly out of his hand, seeping into the white of her bathrobe.

"He wanted..." she breathed, clearly fighting for control of her voice.

"What?" he snarled, gripping her harder. He wanted to hurt her, to tear her apart but his need for information stilled his hand. There was nothing and no one in the world he valued more than John and if Adler had... he'd... His thoughts shattered apart as emotions long supressed made a coup for his mind.

"He blames himself for - for your death."

Her words drew his focus. He needed to calm down, needed to think clearly. Sherlock released her, suddenly pacing the length of the room. Muttering to himself, his fingers curled unconsciously as if around the neck of a violin, his fingers working a frenetic rhythm. Suddenly, he stopped. He spun towards the door but paused with his hand poised on the knob. He didn't bother to look at her. "Stay away from John or I'll put you back in the hole I dragged you out from. Karachi? I believe. You are poison, Irene. A cup from which I would willingly sup. But not John. He's mine."

He stormed out, a moment later the alarm shrilled.

-0-

Watson found himself wandering, and not for the first time. He didn't care where he went, if he got attacked or run down by a taxi. Death was always there for him, a welcome, if elusive, friend.

He stopped as he recognized the ground under his feet. Of course he would come here. This was just another way of punishing himself, wasn't it? Pulling the nearly empty flask from his pocket, he sank down against the black granite tombstone. John hissed as the welts on his back made contact with the chilled mass. He thought, distantly, that he should have worn a coat. He pushed the thought away - hypothermia wasn't the worst way to die. The most preferred, of course, would've been for Sherlock to land on him. Two birds, one suicidal genius.

A pained groan escaped his throat. "Coward," he muttered to himself.

Uncorking the top he gave Sherlock's headstone a little salute before knocking back what was left. He got three large burning swallows before it was empty.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he whispered. He hadn't meant to say anything but now that the words had started, he couldn't stop. "It just hurts so damn much. I'm not - " a sob choked his throat, "I'm not strong enough; not without you. I - I fell for you. You're an insufferable, awful, callous man. You're perfect. You're the kind of man I could love. Still love."

He paused. If this was going to be his last confession he wanted it to be complete.

"After you were... gone I needed someone. I tried a woman, I think I may have made things worse for her. For me too. Then I found this... boy. A college kid. He asked me and - " another sob tore loose.

"He looked like you, a little. He didn't have your ridiculous cheekbones... he didn't have much like you but his eyes... they were like yours. Grey, blue, green - glasz my mum would've called it." John sucked in a deep breath. "He let me call him your name. It was wrong, but, I couldn't stop. We fucked. I don't know how many times. Every time he left I cried like a girl, a prepubescent girl at that. You would have laughed. It was just, for a few fucking moments I could pretend, yeah? I could pretend it was you and my whole life hadn't gone to shit. I could pretend I hadn't lost the only thing that mattered.

"It's all just so stupid. I didn't even know I was in love with you until it was too late." Another gasp, this one deep, calming. "Well," he heaved himself up, "this is goodbye, or maybe, I don't know... see you soon? I know you're an atheist, and I've never given it much thought but... well... Suicides go to hell, right? Maybe I'll see you there."

Bending, he pressed a kiss to the stone, his tears dropping to make little beads on the uneven granite. He turned, knowing exactly what he had to do.

It wasn't long before John climbed the familiar steps to 221B, grateful that Mrs. Hudson was gone. He hoped she'd be off for a while.

He typed out a message, saving it as a draft.

To: Greg Lestrade

I can't live without him. You'll find what's left at 221B. Hurry please - I don't want Mrs. H to find. Sorry it has to be you. -JW

He opened the door, suddenly feeling more at home than he had these past six months. He silently thanked Mycroft for paying the rent. This was right, this was where it should be. He blundered through the living room, climbing the stairs several at a time. He burst into his room, not looking too long at anything. The gun was in his nightstand. He fumbled for it, pulling it free.

"Is this your plan John?" That midnight growl tore through him. Not this - not now. "A pistol to the head? I never thought you were a coward."

Heart pounding in his chest, John spun. "God," he paused, "you're beautiful."

He looked thinner than John remembered, of course his subconscious would project his own degraded mental state onto his hallucinations.

Sherlock smiled, breathtaking, radiant.

"I just wish you weren't a hallucination." He raised the gun to his head, his right hand moving to fumble in his pocket for his mobile. Had to send the note, otherwise Mrs. H might find him. She didn't deserve that. He felt, rather than saw the hand that gripped his wrist, jerking the gun from his hand. His training as a soldier kicked in. Twisting, he pinned his attacker to the wall.

"You're alive!" John gasped as the reality of Sherlock's hard body pressed against his own was processed by his brain.

"I'm sorry John, I - "

"Sorry!" John body checked him, the rage coiled inside him making him shake. A horrible keening noise screamed out of him. He couldn't control it, he knew he had to breathe but the sound just kept coming. He gasped. He thought he might scream again but then, he was sobbing. "You were dead. You were fucking dead. I waited - I thought maybe you might be..." The reality of what he'd been about to do tore through him. He looked at Sherlock, his vision blurring around the edges. He wanted - God! how John wanted. "You son-of-a-bitch," he whispered into the skin of his forearm, braced across Sherlock's shoulders, pressing just slightly against the base of his throat.

In this moment, John didn't care that Sherlock was his best mate or that he shouldn't be doing what he was thinking of doing. He'd given so much to this man, almost gave him his life. Damnit! He was going to take. He was going to take the one thing he'd always wanted. Curling his fingers into Sherlock's hair, he pulled him down for a kiss.


	2. Like gold to an airy thinness beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which explanations are given, promises are made then broken, ghosts are seen, embarrassments are had and little brothers are kidnapped.

The second John's lips made contact with his, Sherlock's brain was inundated with a flood of new data: the pressure per square centimetre of his lips, the apparent synchronisation of their heart rates, the increased tactile sensitivity of his epidermis.

This was different, amazing and so very essential. Sherlock, for the first time in his life, wanted. His body shivered in response to the brush of John's lips, the way he tangled those blunt fingers into his black curly hair.

John released him and he could no more stop the keen of loss which escaped his throat then he could stop the sun from rising. 'Nononononono,' his mind screamed. 'This is John. I need John.' It spoke to the power of emotions coursing through him that he was reduced to three-word thoughts.

"S-"

Sherlock swallowed whatever idiotic sentiment John was about to spout with the press of his lips. He clung to John fiercely, enjoying the slide of John's fingers against his scalp. A moan of pleasure escaped his throat, surprising him. Sherlock's eyes flew open at the sound and for a moment his vision was filled with John's beautiful hard-angled face. John's elevated heart rate was visible in the throbbing at the base of his throat and his green irises were swallowed by the dilation of his pupils. Sherlock leaned forward and gently brushed their parted lips together. A fuzzy sensation filled the space behind his eyes as John's lips opened and his tongue darted across the gap, delving into his mouth.

Oddly, without instruction from his brain his hands were moving, pushing at John's shirt, fumbling with the buttons. John's hands seemed to have similar ideas as they parted his coat easily, dropping it to the floor. Next came his t-shirt, John pulled it over his head before dropping it; the fabric following his coat to the floor. At this point Sherlock had managed exactly one button and was tired of the infernal garment coming between his hands and his doctor's body. With an impatient growl he curled his fingers in the fabric and pulled, enjoying the feeling of it giving way beneath and the sound of buttons clattering to the floor. Sherlock enjoyed a brief moment of satisfaction before realising there was another shirt beneath.

A moan of frustration escaped his lips. "John." His eyes dropped down to the man nibbling along his collarbone. Grabbing a fistful of short blond hair, he yanked that delightful mouth away. Green eyes collided with blue, a frisson of desire passed between them, making them both shiver. "Why," he gasped out of a throat suddenly gone dry, "are you wearing two shirts?"

A laugh escaped that beautiful mouth as he stepped back and peeled what remained of his shirts off. Sherlock hissed as he saw the marks he had only deduced existed. He would fucking kill Adler. There were a seven welts across his chest between approximately two inches in length as well as a myriad of bruises in various states of healing. No the bruises weren't hers, they were at least a few days old and judging by the ovular shape and size were made by a man's fist. Grabbing John by the shoulders he spun him, and saw the crisscross of welts on his back similar to the ones on the front. He had been right, she had used a riding crop.

"Why, John?" he whispered as he began kissing those marks. Proof that he had failed John. 'Proof that he loves you,' Part B irritatingly provided. Sherlock would not think on that. Hope, once lost, could be crushing.

John gasped as Sherlock pushed him gently down onto the bed and straddled him, trailing kisses along those angry marks.

"I thought you were dead." Sherlock could hear the choke of emotion in those words. "I wanted to be dead too. But, also, I didn't want to hurt anymore. I guess, I thought if someone punished me for letting you die..."

A moan of anguish that pressed out of Sherlock's throat.

John continued, "She's like you, in some ways. I guess I wanted you to punish me, but she was a good surrogate."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Sherlock whispered against John's inflamed skin his words a susurrus utterance in the silence of the room.

"Clearly." John indicated his less-than-dead-state with a twitch of blond head. Then he added, "Seeing as how you're alive and all. I just thought, if I had just told you how I felt…" Sherlock saw him press the tears pooling in his eyes into the eiderdown.

"John…?" He retreated from the display of emotion, perching on the end of the bed. This John was not a John to which he could reconcile himself. His soldier, his doctor, his partner shedding tears like a broken, fragile thing. An unpleasant twisting sensation filled his stomach.

John rolled over to sit cross-legged at the headboard. His back had straightened into that precise military bearing, a more familiar stress reaction but no less alarming than the tears had been.

"Tell me how you did it." The tone of voice bore no upward inflection. An order, then.

He felt… uncertain. He danced over whether or not to tell John, whether it would do more harm. He groaned, and immediately stifled the sound. John did not comment upon it merely waited for an answer. His mind was twisting round and round the problem and he could come no closer to it from any direction. "I'm not… It is unlikely to be productive."

"Sherlock." John levelled his hazel gaze at him. Threats he could've deflected, tears would've made him run screaming but there was no defence for the patience in those eyes. Damn.

Sherlock had always wondered why men followed John's orders so completely. To him John was so very often docile, cajoling, easily led. Or course he'd had a taste at Baskerville of the hardness underneath. But this, the way John's eyes seemed to bore their way into him, flaying him apart like a specimen beneath a stereo microscope. The effect was… unsettling.

"I jumped off St. Bart's."

"Start at the beginning." When Sherlock fell into silence again he prompted, "When did you know?"

"I didn't know," he flinched at the caustic tone in his voice. He hoped John knew it was self directed. "The night you chinned the superintendent. I guessed. Moriarty predicted a fall. Going into that Reilly woman's apartment I thought that might be his game but he confirmed it there."

"So you knew?"

Sherlock twitched in annoyance at being interrupted. "What?"

"Moriarty pretending to be an actor."

"Not until we arrived but before he showed up." Sherlock waved the thought away.

John looked irritated and he was glaring rather pointedly at Sherlock's face. "How? And stop making that 'we both know what's going on' expression. I hate that. It's one of the few things I didn't miss. I even missed your howling on the violin but not that."

He forced his muscles into a flaccid state. "Notepad next to the phone. Indents of R. Brook and a number suspiciously close to the one Moriarty put under the culture dish. Couldn't be sure of a few of them, negligent of her not to press harder. But the name," he smiled, he couldn't help himself. This was so much better than the long hours he'd spent talking to the skull or worse, Mycroft. "Richard Brook, fairly opaque. In German Rich Brook is Reichenbach."

"Really?" John gave a little huff of amazement. "Didn't know any of that."

"Well, your knowledge of foreign languages begins and ends with Jenny Guilford and french kissing after clarinet lessons, doesn't it?" John ignored the comment and rolled his hands impatiently in the air. "Anyways, we were at St. Bart's and I thought I'd cracked the code. Stupid really, didn't wait it out. I just really thought I'd had it. Misdirection of course."

"Thought?"

"Yes," Sherlock growled, "'thought' because I was wrong. I thought it was binary but it was music, what I'd been playing the day he was acquitted. It felt wrong but his trap was closing and… there were stakes higher than my reputation. I knew that. I thought he was trying to take you away from me. I was wrong about that to, or partially. He was right. He told me I always want things to be clever. I thought the solution was something like I would come up with but it was people. A bribe here, a threat there. Just stupid, weak people. And him, the spider at the centre of this web. He… oh!"

Of course, just people. The web looked strong, flawless even. But people are flawed, they make mistakes. He'd started pacing at some point and now his head snapped up, eyes locking with John's, "I have to go."

He was diving for his clothes when he felt a hand on his hip, stilling him. "John?" he breathed, his entire focus shifted from detangling the possibilities, retrieving data to that one point of contact, the heat of John's skin pressing through the fabric of his trousers and pants.

"Stay." Not an order this time, the choked way it was said clearly made it a plea. Something was wrong.

"What is it? What's the matter?" He spun, feeling John's hand glide across his backside until it settled at his other hip. He looked John over, his posture had caved, even kneeling on the bed with an arm stretched out the line of his shoulders was weak. No additional injuries he'd not already seen and dismissed. Tremor in his left hand. PTSD.

"Other than the fact that I almost killed myself less than an hour ago?" He pulled away, body turning inward in a guarding gesture. Defensive of him. But, why? He felt the sudden urge to take an interest in cloning so he'd have another John to explain why this John was being irrational.

"I'm not a machine, Sherlock. You can't just input the data 'I'm alive' and expect everything to be fine." With a sigh he added, "Don't make me beg."

"Alright." Sherlock sat back onto the edge of the bed.

"That's it? No well reasoned argument?"

"Well, I can't say as I know why you need me to stay. But, you're John. The rest," he gestured vaguely in the general direction of the outside world, "can wait a little while."

"Thank you." John pressed his lips into the curls at Sherlock's temple. They both rolled back onto the bed until they were in the position John referred to as 'Spoons'. In this equation Sherlock was the little spoon despite his height making the other position more feasible.

After a few moments John asked, "Finish?"

Sherlock quickly replayed the previous discussion. "I thought I'd beaten him but, of course there's always something I miss."

"Like Harry."

"Yes," he bemoaned, "like Harriet. The heart he'd plan on burning out of me wasn't my career or your loyalty. It was your lives: you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. A bit overkill since he really only needed the one." He frowned down at his hand where it had decided to grip John's arm more firmly. He forced the muscles to relax but John pulled him closer as if they'd found the perfect magnetic strength and when he drifted further John's body compensated for it. "'Three bullets, three gunmen'," he muttered in what sounded like a fair imitation of Moriarty's lilting voice.

"Don't do that," John growled in his ear, "it's fucking scary."

"Sorry." He mumbled against the skin of John's arm. "I didn't protect you because I didn't see it until it was too late. Then he made a mistake. He revealed there was some way to stop the assassins, said he wouldn't do it which indicated that there was a way. I thought I could end the game. Walk away from it. I could figure it out because I knew him. Like he so often like to say, we really were the same." John snorted a disagreement but remained silent. "I suppose he knew it too. He shot himself. The trap closed. Game. Set. Match. The bastard."

"Thought you'd shot him. How'd you survive?"

"Luck, planning." He groaned. "There always a chance when you step off a building that size that something is going to fail. I know you're waiting for me to tell you I knew I was going to survive but, I didn't, not really. Six stories was short enough that if I broke my fall I had a good chance of surviving. There was a moment when I asked Moriarty to step away and I look over the side of the building, it was a cue. There was a rubbish truck there. Some of my people, homeless network mostly, stretched a net across. I landed on it, rolled off. Couple people poured blood over me. Few people in the building release the net, another couple pull it into the lorry. It drives off. The cyclist was one of mine, too. To buy me some time. Sorry."

"I checked your pulse."

"In my arm, because someone else was already checking my neck. You can suppress the pulse in the wrist by placing a hard rubber ball in the armpit and applying pressure."

"Jesus, Sherlock. You could've died." The room settled into an uncomfortable silence.

John finally broke it. "What are we doing?" Sherlock rolled so he could see John's face. John took the opportunity to slide back, stealing the warmth of his body. "What happened to 'married to my work'?"

"I'd just met you!" He shifted up to a sitting position. Emotional conversations were best had at a distance that didn't make him inclined to concede so he could start the kissing again. "How did I know you'd be so… you! With your awful jumpers and your obsession with mindless telly and your constant tea-making and milk buying and John-ness! You're one to talk! 'Not gay!', 'I'm not gay.', 'Does anyone care I'm not actually gay?!'" Unlike his imitation of Moriarty, his imitation of John was flawless.

"Moments like these make me wish you'd deleted that."

"I can't delete things about you," he bit out, "even that awful movie with the coconuts and prancing and people proclaiming themselves to be humorous constricting reptiles which you made me watch." He drew a deep breath. "I certainly wouldn't be able to delete you eliminating me as a possible sexual partner."

"I didn't think I had a snowball's chance in hell with you and I'd sworn off men because… it's complicated."

"In the closet, John?" Sherlock twitched his eyebrows, mocking.

"Not really, I just thought I'd put that behind me with 'Three Continents Watson'." At Sherlock's incredulous look he hissed, "I do actually like women!"

Sherlock heaved a sigh and threw himself down on the end of the bed.

"Don't be a tit." John growled and drug him up so that they were both propped against the headboard with John's arm slung over his shoulder. "Just, promise me this isn't an experiment. That it won't become one." John spoke into the curls at his temple. It created a warmth in his abdomen that was pleasant. "I get over it when you put nefarious sugar in my coffee, when you keep heads in the refrigerator and thumbs. I even get over it when you get acid on the kitchen floor, track blood across the apartment and put holes in the wall from your harpoon, gun, machete… And I'll continue to get over it when you sneak in while I'm cooking to add whatever to did to the pea soup. No-" John cut him off. "I really don't want to know." Fingers curled under his chin, tilting his head until their eyes met. He was pinning Sherlock with that intense look, again. "Don't toy with this Sherlock. Promise me."

"I don't want to experiment with you, John. Well," he smiled to himself, "your body perhaps." He fingers wandered until they caressed the outside of John's thigh. "And I can't promise I won't test my tolerance to various chemicals including emetics by adding them to communal meals. But, I don't want to play games with your emotions. That would belie some understanding of your emotions and I must confess John, they have me utterly at quits."

"Good to know I can maintain an air of mystery."

"More like adding to my air of frustration."

He dragged Sherlock's head against his chest where Sherlock could hear the rapid patter of his heart, elevated despite the nonsexual nature of the contact.

"Is this alright?" John asked, his voice a little wobbly.

"Yes, it's," Sherlock found himself unable to describe the exact nature of what he was feeling. All attempts at finding the perfect phrasing made him want to vomit with the saccharine nature of the words. After long moments he finally settled on, "good."

John's laughter made him smile, especially since it was tickling his ear.

"Come on, shower." When he didn't move right away John pushed him off the bed.

"Are we at the communal shower stage?" Sherlock tried to scowl from the heap he'd landed in on the floor.

John's amused laugh had him grinning. "That's a stage?" Sherlock shrugged. "Doesn't matter, it's not like we're doing things in the proper order."

"Well," he sprung off the floor towards the ensuite, "if this is how you trick me into getting naked I can see why your former relationships failed. Not very subtle of you 'Three Continents Watson'."

"Sherlock." He turned to face John. The man was standing a few feet away near the bed. His eyes raked over Sherlock's body in a way that screamed through his blood. His mouth twisted like his was considering whether pairing him with a white or red wine. That made him think about John - who was now licking his lips in a very pleasing, albeit distracting, manner - putting said mouth right there and damnit! It was about that time that Sherlock's thoughts harried off in to what can only be described as chaotic sexual imagery although that seemed a bit clinical for the burn of emotions making his cock throb insistently.

John's voice whipped through the scattered visuals, "Strip. Please." The fact that the 'please' was said sarcastically didn't bother Sherlock a whit as those mottled green eyes narrowed on Sherlock's groin. Suddenly he understood the common practice of bewailing non-existent deities because it seemed someone should be to blame for this incredible man who should really stop saying things in that voice because it could probably topple nations faster than his brother could in a fit of pique. Somehow blaming John's parents for this seemed wrong.

"John," he gasped as those eyes travelled over him again, his skin flushing with arousal beneath the onslaught.

"Strip," he said it softer this time but no less of a command.

Sherlock obeyed. He thought he should try to be less eager. He forcefully shoved the thought away. John came to his aid as he fumbled the belt - damn poorly tailored clothes.

As those hands pushed his away he found a better use for them. Namely burying them in John's hair and snogging the hell out of him. He felt cool air against his legs as John pulled away.

"It's not all that difficult to get you naked." John smiled as he stepped past Sherlock into the bathroom. "And, while I will admit my relationships had their issues my bedroom skills concerning subtly or anything else were never cited. In fact I believe the reason began with Sher and ended with lock." He shut the bathroom door and the little snick of the lock barred him on the far side.

Grinning to himself Sherlock went to retrieve his picks.

-0-

Sherlock stood in the doorway of his bedroom at 221B Baker street, uncertain. He had already dressed in one of his numerous disguises. This one was that of a mid-level businessman, adding to the illusion was the fact that the garment was now ill-fitted due to his recent weight loss.

John was still in bed curled around the spot he had vacated. Clenched fists, elevated heart rate, erratic breathing, vocalisations of an indeterminate nature: John was having a nightmare. Sherlock's fingers itched, wanting to run through John's hair again. It seemed his body had taken up a rather mutinous streak where John was concerned.

He turned, forcing himself from the room before his body rebelled completely and he crawled back into bed.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to John's room, picking the discarded gun up from the floor, activating the safety and stuffing it into the small of his back. He made his way down the fire escape quickly but steadily, dropping into the damp alley beneath. It was foggy and the air was redolent with the smells of the city: garbage, street cleaners, industrial pollution, trees from Regent's Park. The morning was surprisingly peaceful. Even at 3am there was often the distant wail of sirens or car alarms, but this morning was filled with oppressive silence.

Cutting straight across instead of following the prescribed paths, Sherlock crossed over Regent's and found a black sedan idling on the corner, waiting for him.

He slid into the back seat, unsurprised to find Mycroft dozing lightly. Sherlock folded himself into the seat, not bothering with the safety belt.

"It would seem congratulations are in order." Mycroft said by way of greeting.

Sherlock pointedly ignored him, staring at the lights as the city sailed by. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide the signs of their… tryst? However, that didn't mean he had to rise to the bait. He sneered at himself, reduced as he was to fishing metaphors.

He tried to settle into his mind palace but Mycroft's irritating voice drew him out. "The gun?" he asked looking through Sherlock's torso.

That reminded him. "I want John's security team replaced." He didn't turn around but he could feel Mycroft's dismissal even before it was said.

"I have competent people working on it."

Sherlock pulled out the gun and tossed it on the seat opposite. "Twelve hours ago I took that away from John's head. Yet none of your security informed you of his mental state. Do you know who told me?"

Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Irene Adler." Sherlock felt a pleasant sensation in his stomach at Mycroft's naked shock.

His brother regarded him for long moment before finally saying, "I'll take care of it."

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes.

"She's alive then?" Mycroft asked. "No, never mind. She's been declawed so it hardly matters."

"The fiction was not for your benefit." he murmured to the darkness behind his eyes.

"Sherlock-" If he were in a gracious mood perhaps he would give his brother credit for persistence. However, since he was not, all Mycroft's insistent chattering was doing was endangering his fragile self control.

"What, Mycroft?" he shouted, his eyes flashing open as he finally lost his temper. The way his brother's eyes kept narrowing on the scattering of light bruises at his throat - clearly placed by John's mouth - Sherlock easily deduced the intended topic of conversation. Best to deflect. "How was your trip?" Sherlock blustered on despite, or perhaps because of, Mycroft's twitch of annoyance. "The way you are guarding your left bicep indicates recent injury. That, combined with your weight loss of exactly four pounds, apparent fatigue, the increase in tan and the bite of a fly native to Central America visible on your right ankle makes it likely a vaccine booster. Your shoes are scuffed, no time for a polish so you've just returned. Couldn't have been too long a trip, since I saw you three days ago. You've picked at your thumb nail - nasty habit that, Mummy would be upset - so clearly it was stressful. Business then, not pleasure.

"The wrinkles in your coat sleeve suggest it has been grabbed, firmly, and several times. The only people you'd allow to touch you would be body guards, so someplace dangerous, but too important to send an underling. That indicates whomever or whatever you went to meet has money or power or, knowing you, likely both. Add in the distinctive but faint smell of hemp oil and the THC crystals on your leg and it seems obvious you've just returned from negotiating with a Mexican Drug Cartel."

"Very good, Sherlock." he grinned. "Now, shall we discuss your recent foray into physiological indulgence?"

Sherlock returned to Plan A: Avoidance.

"Come now, Sherlock, no need to be petulant." he mused. "It is, after all dear brother, only normal." Mycroft added a humourless smiled to drive in the insincerity. "Clearly your relationship with John has a new… development."

Sherlock's gaze jerked away from the window. He glared at Mycroft. Sherlock couldn't force his jaw to unclench so he pushed the words past his teeth. They dropped like stones into the silence. "The nature of my relationship with my… with John is none of your business."

"Indeed." Mycroft leaned back, nearly purring in delight.

It was a while before Sherlock finally added, "Keep him away from Adler. I don't trust her motives."

"Do you trust mine?"

"Of course." Sherlock pulled his gaze away from the window to meet his brother's gaze. "Guilt is one of the more reliable human emotions."

Clearly exhausted from their verbal tete a tete, Mycroft pulled a dossier from his case, effectively ending the previous conversation.

"The report you asked for," Mycroft said, handing the folder over. "Everything we extracted from Moriarty during his time with us."

Sherlock scanned the file, committing it to memory. Moriarty's behaviour was typical; erratic, possible psychosis. He spent much of the time silent. 'Unusual,' Mycroft had written in his notes, 'he does not threaten except a day ago when a new (to him) guard touched him. He spoke calmly, describing rather inventive ways of murdering the man's family. He spoke in Farsi. The guard was formerly a translator."

There were other things. Things he muttered to himself. He often referred to himself in the third person.

"The guard," Sherlock asked, "did he follow through on his threats?"

"Unfortunately," Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, "he did."

"How?"

"The body of the guard, his wife and newborn were found eviscerated. Their intestinal cavities and mouths were filled with maggots, placed there by the killer. The walls were painted in blood, literally. The killer use a rolling brush. There was also a boy, a seven year old son from a former wife found strangled. I don't think Moriarty did it, someone else probably."

"Do you have his file?"

"Indeed." Mycroft tossed it on the seat next to him. He snatched it up and added it to his briefcase. "Kitty Reilly?"

"You were right," Mycroft sighed as if the very idea of Sherlock coming to a conclusion before him was morally reprehensible, "she's not real. Worked at the newspaper only four months before your encounter. The credentials provided were entirely falsified. It seems he got the name from an obscure children's author, penned a few retellings of the Arthurian Legends as manner lessons. Drivel, I'm assured."

Sherlock peered out at the London streets for a while, the interior of the car settling into ominous silence as two of the greatest minds on the planet simply though. Wars were started over less.

"Here's fine." Sherlock said.

Mycroft used the handle of his umbrella to tap lightly at the divider. The car sailed over to the curb.

"I really wish you'd let me put you in a safehouse."

Sherlock's lip twisted in amusement. "Safehouses always have paper trails. It is better this way."

Mycroft conceded the logic of the point but not the practicality. "Very well." He reached into his case once more and pulled out a baggy filled with a variety of bills and in the bottom corner, a driver's liscence. "Here. This should get you by for a while. Contact me through the usual method if you need anything."

"Thank you Mycroft."

Sherlock pushed the door open and was out into the night even as Mycroft's barely concealed look of utter suprise registered. Sherlock smiled, maybe being nice every once in a while would serve to be amusing. Certainly it would please John. John. His mouth, unbidden formed the name, his breath rolling out in a cloud in the chilly night.

He moved quickly because he didn't want to be followed and not because he was running from his feelings about John. Yes, that was it. He entered the tube station, there were a few people milling about, some homeless as well. He dropped off the platform and into the tunnel, his pen torch illuminating the brickwork until it split off, the track was deteriorated here. He turned into the abandoned tunnels, reading the markers others had but on the walls. They were like underground streets signs if you knew what they meant. He passed a lot of people sleeping, curled agains the curved edges of the shaft. He navigated around them quickly and silently.

Finally the lights of an old train car came into view as he made his way through a convoluted access shaft.

He'd found this place early on and managed to splint off electricity from a nearby main. He let some people stay there in exchange for being his eyes and ears and pinching items he needed. There were two men: Lucas and Justin, both young gay men thrown out by their families, curled up on one of the deteriorating couches they'd managed to drag in. Justin peaked at him under a shaggy blond lock.

"Hey Sherlock," Lucas muttered again his lover's chest. The sight made his stomach clench in longing.

He fell into the other couch without responding and immediately spread out the files. The information Moriarty provided was scarce, disparate facts without any cohesion. Most of it had been about the crimes and most of it had been false. The guard, however, something about the guard... married, new child despite being well into his fifties. Worked as a translator during Desert Storm; then as a security guard in a mental facility for disturbed youths. Stop.

Was it possible Moriarty has been institutionalised? Before or after he had killed Carl and gotten away with it? It would have had to have been sealed or well hidden for it to not raise questions during the investigation. Or the police were incompetent. Possible.

A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see Justin looking down at him menacingly. "Lucas found it. Least you could do is say thanks. I know you saw it, s'not like you ever miss anything."

He had seen the bottle of chemical on his workbench. It really was shopping carts and random bits from construction sights cobbled together to make a table in the centre. The network had helped him gather enough equipment that he could do some of his work here, though he really needed access to St. Bart's.

He looked Justin over, the boy hadn't been eating again, he always gave his food to Lucas. Justin had been on the streets longer, he was harder. He'd been raped and beaten and nearly killed since he was four or five. Lucas had only been homeless for a few months. Justin had saved him from being shanked by a beer bottle and they'd been inseperable ever since. Justin knew Sherlock but he didn't trust him which was fine by Sherlock. But Lucas was like a puppy, always seeking approval.

Sherlock's eyes wandered over to Lucas, now sitting on the couch, his forearms braced against his knees. His head hung in embarassment.

"Thank you, Lucas. That was... thanks." Sherlock wasn't good at apologies or thanks but Justin seemed satisfied.

"Got anything to eat?" Lucas asked hopefully.

Sherlock shook his head. "But I've got cash, if one of you wants to go up top and get take away."

Justin accepted with a nod of his head and was off with thirty clutched in his hand.

Lucas smiled at him shyly. "Justin doesn't mean it. He's... we're grateful. Someplace warm and dry and you've always got money for food or whatever else." Sherlock had bought them condoms and lube a few times. "I know you don't like me prying but, why are you living on the streets Mister Sherlock? I know Justin doesn't read and he doesn't know but... you're famous, why be down here?"

"It's safer for... my friends. For now this is the only place I can't be found."

"Yeah, ok."

"Have you seen Samantha?"

Just the the door slid open revealing a girl nearing adulthood. She was small, probably from malnutrition. Wary green eyes always looking out on the world from underneath a shock of now purple hair. "Talking about me again?" She grinned, dropping her backpack in the corner and taking up residence on the other end of the couch Lucas was sitting on.

"Yes," Lucas grinned, "Sherlock was just saying how he's been pining for you from the moment you met and..."

A pillow collided with the side of his head.

"Hey," Samantha had moved, coming over to join Sherlock. "You alright? You look like shit."

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped. A bit not good. He took a deep breath and tried again. "I will be fine."

-0-

The first thing John felt was pain. There was pain in his back from Irene's whip, now faded to a dull ache. The bone-deep burning all over his body from months of bar fights. There was the gentle, rolling pain from self inflicted deprivation. Finally the intense throbbing in his eyes exacerbated by an errant shaft of sunlight piercing through his eyelids. The second thing of which he was aware was the cold. Neither he, nor Sherlock had bothered to turn on the heat the night before. He reached out, still half conscious and found only a fistful of sheet.

His eyes flew open as he jerked upright. The room did a fair impression of a carnival ride, sending a wave of nausea through his guts as it inverted itself. He forced a measure of calm into his gibbering mind. He was in Sherlock's bed and he was naked; both those facts aligned with his memory of the night before. He grabbed his abandoned bathrobe as he slipped from the bed. It took him only a few minutes to confirm what he already feared... the house was empty. If it weren't for the scattering of Sherlock's clothes on the floor he would be forced to accept he'd gone 'round the twist.

He pushed away the cloying at his throat and managed to get dressed. He decided he had to do something after he caught himself staring at Sherlock's violin, unable to look away.

Forcing himself from it and into the kitchen, he put the kettle on. He found some tea abandoned in a drawer and pulled down a mug. Everything was dust-free, clearly Mrs. Hudson had been in despite her constant insistence that she wasn't their housekeeper.

The water boiled and he poured. Taking it over to the fridge, he found himself staring at empty shelves. Of course, because he didn't actually live here.

Suddenly he was unbearably angry; angry at Sherlock for leaving and at the fridge for having no milk. He threw his cup with a howl of rage, hearing it shatter distantly as he sank to the floor.

He drew shallow breaths through his clenched jaw, the sound hissing in his ears. His hands balled into fists. He was shaking with the effort of controlling the violence seeking release.

"Oh! John!" he heard Mrs. Hudson gasp as she swept into the room trailing the scent of clove and ginger. Gentle hands wrapped around his shoulders as she made soft soothing noises. "It's alright, dear. Shh. Come one. Come with me." Those hands helped lift him from the floor and encouraged out into the living room, depositing him in a beaten down armchair. A minute later a glass of brandy appeared in his hand.

"Here, dear," she said, patting his shoulder before retreating into the kitchen. She began cleaning up the mess he'd made. "When did you get in?" It sounded as if he'd just had a late night with his mates."

"Yesterday." His voice sounded scratchy.

"Oh! I was off visiting my sister. Did you come for your things?"

He shook his head. There was the sound of porcelain dropping into the bin.

"You could move back. If it's… I could get rid of his things."

"No!" John leapt out of his chair and rounded on Mrs. Hudson. She cringed, the dustpan held defensively in front of her. The anger fled out of him, shame replacing it. "I'm sorry, I…" He heaved a deep breath. "I want his things."

"Oh, dear!" She set the pan on the table, stark without the hodge podgy of science equipment littering its surface. She wrapped him in a maternal hug. "It's alright. When you're ready, yes?"

He nodded, his cheek mussing her hair.

"John," she pulled back, staring deep into his. "I'm worried. Anyone with eyes to see know you're drowning in it…"

"In what?"

She patted his cheek. "In love, dear."

John felt a stifling claustrophobia pressing in on him. Suddenly he couldn't be there with this woman who knew him so well, surrounded by Sherlock's things in the flat they had shared, covered in the memory of his touch.

He muttered half conceived apologies, stumbling into London's welcoming embrace.

John pounded down the sidewalk towards Regent's Park. The morning smelled damp, a light drizzle falling on the grounded orange and yellow leaves. He drew the appreciative glances of a gaggle of office women as he ran past them again. How many times was that? He must've been at it a while now, sweat was pouring off of him in great sheets, soaking his t-shirt and trousers.

He stopped, the screaming pain in his body coming from more places than his bloody leg. Nausea twisted 'round his stomach as he threw up in the nearest bin. Luckily he hadn't eaten and it brought up only a thin tea-coloured foam and the smell of alcohol. Leaning against the cool metal can, he waited until the dry heaving stopped before collapsing on the grass nearby.

Something was bothering him. Sherlock had fake his death, and John still had no idea how. But Molly, she had pronounced him dead. At the funeral she was acting flighty, strange and hadn't returned any of his calls or texts. At the time he had thought Molly felt guilty. But, if it were him he would want to offer comfort and not avoidance. So, why? Then it hit him and he was launching to his feet… Molly was a terrible liar.

He took the tube back to Harry's. She was off at work for the day and he had the flat to himself as he cleaned himself up. He was back on the street in less than an hour. It took him a while to hail a cab lacking, as he did, Sherlock's insufferable ability to magnetise them to his person.

He hand began shaking the moment they turned the corner, the hulking edifice of St. Bart's swimming into view. He tried to turn his focus away, concentrate on paying the cabbie. His body couldn't seem to shake the feeling that if he just looked up, there would be Sherlock's silhouette pressed against the sky line.

Somewhere nearby a phone rang.

The flashback slammed into him, his knees giving way under the onslaught. His mind reeled from panic, to disbelief. Logic warring with memories each telling him that no/yes this was/n't real.

Molly found him like that, shaking on the side walk, passersby ignoring him as he wept.

"John? John!" Warm arms wrapped around him, guiding him. He came back to reality in an office… Molly's office, a mug of tea cradled in his hands.

"Molly?" He nearly choked on the dryness in his throat but his stomach recoiled at the thought of drinking the tea.

She stepped into the doorway. He didn't need to be Sherlock to know she'd been crying.

"Hello, John." She seemed changed, sadder.

"What happened?"

She shrugged. "Don't know." She came into the room, taking the chair opposite rather than her seat behind the desk. Her hand was warm where she laid it on his knee. "You were screaming… his name."

He felt himself jump.

"It's alright, John." Her eyes were huge, liquid brown and filled with guilt.

"I know he's alive." He could see the denial already forming, he didn't let her say it. He couldn't let her fuel the dissonance in his head. "He showed up at the flat, yesterday. He… I was about to do something… completely mental, in hindsight."

"Do you hate me?" she squeaked, barely audible.

He shook his head. "If he asked me to do it? No question. I would have." He frowned into the mug in his hands before setting it aside. He ventured a weak smile, scooping up Molly's hands. "I know what he's like. I know why you kept his secret. I know why you said yes."

He found himself with two arms full of overemotional assistant coroner, her soft lips pressed against his own. An image floated unbidden into his mind: Sherlock as he had looked the night before… unguarded almost vulnerable. Then he felt those beautiful eyes watching him doing this. John watched that vulnerability sink underneath the facade, the perfect imitation of a sociopath, the one he used to shelter his heart.

It gave him the strength to gently but firmly take Molly by the shoulders and push her away. To refuse the comfort she was offering and he so badly wanted to accept. "I…" he cleared his throat, "I can't…"

"Oh," horror flashed over her face. Her mouth dropping open in a little 'o' of surprise. She stammered, "I'm sorry, John. I just… I thought… it doesn't have to mean anything…"

"Molly." He used the voice he'd cultivated as a Captain. It worked, she fell immediately silent. "Sherlock," he paused then decided to begin again. "The nature of my relationship with Sherlock has changed."

At her continued look of flustered confusion he forced himself to try again.

"Sherlock and I… well…" his gaze fell to his hands. "…shagged."

His eyes flashed back just in time to see Molly's eyes rise in shock. "But you're not gay!"

He wasn't surprised to hear her not say the same about Sherlock. A wry smile twisted his lips, he deserved that. "Yes, that's… well I guess I'm a little less 'not gay' than I originally determined."

She nodded, shamefaced. Her eyes were attempting to bore holes in the floor.

"Do you…" it seemed awful to ask her this now. "Do you have a way of reaching him?"

She nodded again.

"Could you… tell him to call me?"

"Yeah." She got up and went around to her computer. There was some clicking and then some typing. A moment later the computer beeped as a response came in. Molly flinched.

"What is it?"

Rather than answer she turned the monitor so he could read it.

Can't. Busy. I will return when I can. -S.

"Alright, thanks Molly." He swallowed the tears in his throat. Sherlock would not make him cry.

"I'm sorry John. I'll tell him he's being stupid."

"No…" he whispered. "I'll be fine."

"Do you want me to take you home?"

Home? He wanted to tell her there was no home without Sherlock. He didn't. John just shook his head as he slipped out of the office with another murmured, "I'm fine."

Sometime later he became aware of the insistent beeping from his pocket, his mobile demanding to be charged. He pulled it out and heaved it in the gutter feeling a twisted pleasure as it broke apart. He had a bad feeling. Maybe it was guilt and maybe it was grief. All he could think about was that Sherlock was god-knows-where doing exactly what Sherlock does which is get into trouble. This time he wouldn't be there to save him.

He was hardly even surprised when the black sedan pulled up to the curb, crunching plastic beneath his tires as it filled his vision. Mycroft, for once, had perfect timing.

"I want to see your damn boss!" he growled as the sedan pulled away.

-0-

"Your associate is on his way to my office, little brother. Ms. Hooper has left two frantic messages with my security team insisting I 'talk sense into you-know-who'; although why she believes me capable of this after a life time of failure, remains unclear. Now, after all this I receive a text from you stating I should concern myself with the mental health of your doctor. So, I will ask again and this time you will answer truthfully and in full. What. Have. You. Done?"

Mycroft noted the huff of impatience as his younger brother launched into a hasty explanation. Clearly he felt guilty otherwise Mycroft would have received a terse rebuttal, interesting… and disturbing. Mycroft had his misgivings about his brother's new dalliance. Sherlock was not well acclimated to emotions, case in point the CIA agent whose repeated falls from 221B had landed him in intensive care. Most would see Sherlock's reaction as excessive. Mycroft had been pleased that there was any part to the man left to interrogate.

Sherlock had always had a dubious relationship with emotions. Perhaps it was because of his genius or perhaps it was due to the intemperate nature of growing up in a household with Mummy. She, like her sons, had been a brilliant woman. Vibrant. Exceptional. By the time Sherlock was old enough to form permanent memories of a maternal nature; Mummy Holmes was already slipping into her delusions. The brain once as sharp, if less awkward, than both her sons' turned to nonsensical mush. The product of a genetic weakness.

Long ago, Mycroft had told Sherlock she was dead. If Sherlock knew the truth, he had never said. The 'transport', as Sherlock would have said, still remained but what made their mother quintessentially her had long faded away.

Sherlock's childhood had been littered with emotional failures. He would bring home some pet to love and Mummy would have it drowned in one of her fits. Sherlock would try to make friends with the other school kids just to be mocked for his uniqueness. Mycroft, nearly a decade his elder and off to a school halfway across the country, couldn't care for him. Mummy had always insisted that he look after his little brother and then effectively cut-off his ability to do so. Still, when he was home there would be days of bliss, their minds so aligned as to startle the maids. Of course their vapid minds believed them psychic, but they knew the truth. They merely shared a trait so rare as to make them the only people who could understand.

Being a Holmes was existing in a lonely universe.

Then father, always a shadow of a man in their lives flitting from one job to the next in an effort to be away from his brilliantly unreachable sons and slowly deteriorating wife, piled stones into his coat and walked into the nearest body of water. Mycroft was the one to tell Sherlock, not Mummy who was already sedated by the staff. Mycroft was twenty two and had been gone, applying himself to his new job in the government as fully as his father ever had. Sherlock was fifteen and angry at Mycroft for not being there before and not remaining after. Mycroft became the enemy that Sherlock's brilliant mind craved because the emotions of such a thing were too great to bear otherwise.

It was easy, so easy to let Sherlock hate him. He didn't have to save Sherlock from himself or protect him from the world anymore.

Then Sherlock overdosed. He hadn't known about the cocaine or anything else in Sherlock's life. As his little brother lie in recovery in hospital he used his connections to find everything. He traced down a half dozen dealers and terrorised them into choosing other clients. He had several MI5 agents toss Sherlock's flat until all of the substance was disposed of. Then he hired an army of maids to deal with the aftermath. He even received a file of CCTV images and interviews of everyone in Sherlock's life. The man they described bore only marginal resemblance to the boy he remembered, genius yes, but filled with emotion and life. The man they described was cold, unfeeling, irascible. More a parody of his older brother than he would've ever thought Sherlock capable. It wasn't until a Detective Inspector by the name of Lestrade showed up that he finally understood.

The man looked a wreck, unshaved, eyes bloodshot, the distinct wear patterns of a night spent sleeping in the waiting room of the A&E. His chest had accumulated fully two days worth of coffee stains. Wedding ring, shine on it indicated a nervous habit of twisting it. No children, but a wife. Unhappy marriage from the stress line carving their premature way through his forehead.

"'Ello," he offered up a dubiously clean hand. His accent indicated the Somerset area but had spent sometime in London.

Mycroft merely stared at it from his perch in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. "Who might you be?"

"I'm his friend."

Mycroft was appropriately surprised. "Sherlock doesn't have friends. He has experiments."

"Doesn't matter. I'm still his friend." The detective's eyes narrowed, for he was clearly a detective based on the horribly tailored clothes and the calluses on his left hand. "Who're you?"

An elegant eyebrow curved, a smile that was not a smile edged on the corners of his mouth. The predictable response. "Mycroft Holmes."

Breath hissed through teeth and it was then, for the first time Mycroft noticed Gregory Lestrade for more than his association to his wayward relation. Gregory Lestrade was beautiful. He was sculpted in the mode of the Greek Revivalists, perfect facial symmetry and a cavalier humour that made even his scowl seem good-natured. Mycroft filed that under 'useless information about heterosexual men and their attractiveness'. Unlike his brother he enjoyed pastimes of a more carnal nature. However, he did not enjoy them with committed men or his brother's friends. Both headlines making this man, for all purposes, the veritable Pandora's box of potential emotional fallout.

It took him a moment to realise the DI was still talking. He replayed the last moments in his head. "So, you're what? Cousin?"

"Brother." Mycroft provided. He supposed it should hurt that Sherlock would not mention him, but then, that was how it was now, wasn't it? He could not recall the last time he had volunteered information about his own familial lot.

"Didn't know he had a brother."

"Yet, I exist all the same." A few moments of bludgeoning silence before Mycroft asked, "How long?"

"With the drugs?"

Mycroft nodded, not looking away from the wilted figure on the hospital bed; all brilliance, all illuminating vibrance had fled deeper into the shell.

"Long as I've known him. Two years?"

Just after Mycroft had stopped bothering with his painful visits to his brother. Guilt settled into his viscera. "Tell me about him." It was spoken softly, whispered into the room but no one would doubt that it was a command.

Surprisingly, without a pointless show of dominance, Lestrade provided the information he sought. He weaved a tale of a psychotic little junkie turning out to be a forensic genius with a penchant for insults. In the narrative were little pearls, data he added to the file labeled 'Sherlock' in his mind. It was strange, seeing his brother through someone else's eyes. The unexpected regard this man had for his sibling was unnerved. He had distanced himself from Sherlock believing Sherlock could not accept his affection, anyone's affection. Here was a man who falsified all the data.

Mycroft leaned back in his office chair, eyes focusing on the trompe l'oeil fresco on the ceiling of his palace office. Somehow the ridiculous half-naked cherubim and stylised fruit drew him back to reality. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to subdue the cresting headache. "No, Sherlock," he cut his brother off as he was about to launch into another series of pointless pleading. "I cannot just 'step in'. It is far easier to engineer wars in distant countries than to enforce domestic bliss. I'm a government official, not your couples counsellor. So, if you'd kindly come and speak to the man - " The distinctive 'click' of the call ending had him staring into the screen of his mobile in a rather embarrassing pantomime of 'dumbstruck'.

He dialled back, unable to believe his brother would have such sheer unmitigated gall. It went to a message proclaiming something unimportant about inboxes and settings. He ended the call.

A delightful icy calm settled over the frustration and anger, muffling it until his thoughts returned to their regular volume in his cerebellum. His pulled up the number for the people responsible for tracking Sherlock's movements on CCTV and dialled it.

"Sir?"

"Locate and retrieve the package for delivery to Diogenes."

"Yes, sir. Confirmation code?"

"Salt the Earth."

After he hung up he immediately dialled Anthea. "Sir?"

"Reroute to Diogenes."

"Yes… and the other asset?"

"Involuntary delivery." Mycroft growled. "Alert the staff."

"Yes, sir."

"Talk later." He hung up, collected a few files and placed them in his briefcase, collected his coat and umbrella and met his car around the back at a private exit. As the car pulled away a few tourists snapped pictures at the tinted windows, likely convinced he was some nature of royalty.

He sighed and slid away. He didn't care for his palace office, too high profile for a man who lived his life manipulating shadows. Still, the American president had a scheduled a visit shortly and some of the people he worked for were nervous. He'd spent the whole day with a smile welded on, offering explanations and reassurances.

One of his hands drifted gently to the bridge of his nose in an attempt to soothe the pain coalescing behind his eyes.

He had barely settled himself into his favourite chair in his private study in the club before John burst in.

For a moment he could see the appeal, John was a man of hard angles and deep passions. Once, briefly, he had considered seducing the man just to irritate his irascible sibling. The was before the man's psyche resolved itself into a complete picture. Sherlock may be drawn to dominance and a penchant to enjoy danger but Mycroft decidedly was not. He liked his men a little more compliant. A certain detective inspector came to mind.

Unlike his brother, Mycroft did not feel the need to lay the shadows of the populace bare to the sterilising light of deduction. Thus, he kept his thoughts about his brother's submissive streak and John's opposing inclinations to himself. It was shocking how Sherlock failed to note the spectacular failure rate of John's emotional forays. So absurdly high that he toed the line of bigamy. All the while each woman getting more waifish, their hair dark, their skin more pale. Of course he explained he one away, blaming Sherlock or even himself but still he returned to the haphazard flat and the man who kept errant body parts in the crisper.

John, unbeknownst to himself, had found what he needed. Inexplicably, in a world full of independently stable molecules they found each other and formed a covalent bond. It was moments when they were drawn apart that any standing between them could feel the uncompromising molecular gravity.

For a moment John paused in the doorway, shoulders hunched, teeth gritted in a prolonged stress reaction. 'Oh Sherlock,' Mycroft thought, 'You must learn not to break your toys.'

"I want you to kill me," John nearly shouted in the susurrus quiescence of his the dark walled room.

Mycroft smirked at John who stiffened. He often thought that nothing remained to surprise him, but John had been surprising from the first. Yes, he could see why Sherlock was interested. "No."

John crossed the room, ostensibly to sit but his body became unwilling at the final moment and instead began a frenetic pacing. "Don't you want to know why?"

"Considering your self-destructive patterns of behaviour lately, I hardly think that needs qualification. However one does wonder why you've chosen me." He gestured pointedly to a chair, "Do sit."

John seemed to noticed his pacing finally. Murderous thoughts briefly twitched across his facial muscles before settling. He slumped into one of the of the vacant seats before explaining. "I don't actually want you to kill me. I want to disappear. Do to me what you did to Sherlock."

He thought about challenging John's assumption that he had anything to do with Sherlock's false death but left it. The headache his brother's call had birthed into his frontal sinuses made a blitz attack. He pinched down, hoping to soothe the throbbing. "And the purpose of your vacation from yourself?"

"Erm… Sherlock. Look Mycroft, we…" The captain's brain must have short-circuited because John didn't look capable of finishing that sentence. Instead, he chose a queer little half smile.

In a stroke of charity, Mycroft chose to end the man's misery. "I know about your…" Mycroft paused, searching for a word that would not require a bath in hydrochloric acid for his tongue, "interaction with my brother. Which is why my answer continues to be 'no'."

"Why?" John looked pained, sick even.

"Because I doubt there is anything you can offer me that could be worth the difficulties of Sherlock's… tantrum were I to put you in danger. His emotions concerning you are quite… irrational. However, that won't be necessary."

Mycroft watched the man curl in on himself as if he'd been kicked in the solar plexus. Pity, unfamiliar and unwanted forced him to speak, "Sherlock does care for you, John. Though he is ill equipped to deal with said emotions."

John held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I really don't want to talk about this with you."

"Nor do I, but I feel you are owed an explanation of sorts."

John's eyebrow raised in what could only be a permissive gesture.

"My brother does not love. It is easier that way, for him, at least. Despite the astronomical odds against such as thing happening you have managed to insinuate yourself closer to him than perhaps even he thought was possible. He would never say it but Sherlock is vulnerable beneath the mask."

"Is that why…? The cocaine…? You never said why. He never said why."

"The cocaine allows him to function in his deductive mind longer. While I cannot be certain it is unrelated to his emotional state," Mycroft breathed deeply, "I can be fairly certain."

John nodded.

"He needs you, John. He will not be good to you. But he will need you all the same."

"So, what? I should just go on pretending it's fine?"

"Perhaps. That is for you to negotiate. I feel I must request you refrain from maiming him." Mycroft rose as the door opened and a familiar bound figure was dragged into the room and deposited on the carpeting. He stepped around his little brother easily but paused at the door to say, "This door will lock behind me. It will not open for several hours.

He remembered something and stepped back into the room. It only took a moment to find Sherlock's lock picks.

"I'll leave these with the staff."

He stepped gratefully into the hall, dismissing the agents to a few hours of freedom. Anthea was also there, leaning casually against the wall.

"Be so kind as to clear my morning appointments and hold my calls for the evening. I will be taking some personal time."

"Shall I send a car for him?" she asked without looking up but a little smile played at the corners of her mouth.

"That won't be necessary. I shall stop on the way. Have the hotel put a variety of beer in the pantry."

"Dinner?"

"Not yet."

"Done." She smiled fully at him, their eyes meeting. "Go sir, I'll watch over these two. Make sure everything is sorted."

He gave her a little half-bow. "Remind me to give you another raise." Her brows made an annoyed flutter. "Alright, football tickets, if you do insistent I suppose I shall condescend."

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh," he stopped partially through turning away. "Irene Adler's in town, alive apparently. I know your undercover operation with her became… complicated. Just know I would not take it personally if you were to visit. She is no longer considered a threat."

"I'll… consider it, sir."

"See that you do. We all deserve a little happiness." He moved away and with a final wave, left the building.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas! You're invaluable.
> 
> First beta credit goes to a personal friend of mine, Jo who spent long nights discussing my complete inability to write John's head voice, edited my, misplacd, commas,,,,,,,, and generally harrassed me for my punctuation. Also thanks for your wonderful smile, encouragement and exasperation. AND (she hates it when I start sentences with And) thanks for not strangling me when I reworked the scene to keep in just one joke.
> 
> Second beta credit goes to the great and wonderful Zeorzia, loving titled 'Bloody Brilliant British Beta'. Thanks for not laughing too hard at my misuse of the word 'bloody' as an expletive. Thanks for correcting my awful US spelling (you know the UK spelling really IS better) and for researching just how much a pint of beer goes for in London! You're beyond wonderful.
> 
> Anyone based in the UK who would like to assist with britpicking or beta reading can PM me.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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